


Second Spring

by grahamhannah53



Series: Second Spring [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Harry Potter, Getting Back Together, Head Auror Harry Potter, Implied Mpreg, Light Bondage, M/M, Making Up, Mates, Rimming, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, alpha!Harry, omega!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25632508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: Years after their disastrous breakup, Draco Malfoy comes back from France with a much sought-after skill set and a brilliant resume-- one that even Harry Potter could envy. Harry resolutely decides that staying away from Draco is the best option, forcing himself to resist the almost magnetic pull to his mate in favor of carrying on with life as normal... but when Draco ends up in his interrigation room in the middle of his heat, things get... dicey.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Second Spring [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843201
Comments: 88
Kudos: 735





	1. Out Of The Frying Pan (And Into The Fire)

Draco Malfoy was back. 

And, of course, his return from his five-year Auror career in France couldn't have been a normal one, oh no. Had it been, Harry would have been able to bear it a little better— he'd at least have had a heads-up by way of  _ The Prophet  _ that way. No, Draco's return was completely unheralded by any paper, and the day he walked into the Atrium wearing coal-black Unspeakable robes, no one was at all prepared. For all the looks he received, Draco might as well have kicked in the doors with AC/DC's "Back in Black" blaring behind him— as it was, he had only opened the door with his typical grace and kept his head high as he walked to his office. 

That was five months ago— in that time, Harry and Draco had interacted a grand total of four times. The first time was by far the most appalling, and though each time did not improve the experience, Draco's hearing that first day would forever exist as one of Harry's worst memories. 

"Why are you back here?" 

One of Harry's subordinates— from interrogation, he seemed to remember— was heading up the interview, and, somehow, it seemed a whole lot less like an interview and a whole lot more like an investigation. Harry had to fight hard for control of his impulses, stomping down on the powerful urge to leap to his mate's defense as hard as he could. Draco was no longer his, no matter the marks they bore, and it would look awful strange for Harry to act like a tit for absolutely no reason in front of his colleagues.

"Because Wiltshire is my home," Draco replied icily, looking so, so fit in the skin-tight Unspeakable uniform he wore, now uncovered by the black cloak that had previously been pulled close, clasped with gunmetal black pin. Harry’s mouth watered ever so slightly, and he wondered distantly if anyone would notice if he drooled a bit.

"No other reason?"

"Other than the Department of Mysteries begging for my expertise on all your cold cases? No, that would be all."

Draco's walls were up, Harry knew— he only took that tone of lazy superiority when he was uncomfortable or under pressure. The interrogator— Jackson, perhaps, was his name?— scowled, but continued. 

"And what is your area of expertise,  _ Unspeakable  _ Malfoy?"

Draco studied probably-Jackson coldly before the left side of his face ticked upwards into a smirk. "My expertise is two-fold. I am the leading expert on Secondary Genders and Related Magics— the best on the continent, perhaps world-wide— and I'm also the most proficient wizard to date at using wandless magic in the areas of combat and curse-breaking. As for other things, well. I manage."

"Can you prove it?" Jackson asked as he folded his arms, looking to all the world like a petulant child in the face of Draco's haughty indifference.

At that, Draco's eyes flickered to the Head of the Department of Mysteries— all the Department Heads were there, hence why Harry had been pulled out of his stuffy Head Auror office— and she nodded almost imperceptibly, giving Draco her permission to display his abilities. Draco's scent flared a bit as he smiled tightly, and Harry remembered that look well enough to feel almost sorry for poor probably-Jackson.

"If you will allow me, I would like to use you for an example, Auror… "

"Auror Jackson," the interrogator— oh, pardon,  _ interviewer—  _ confirmed, blanching. "Are you certain that's the best way to—"

Harry found himself speaking to interrupt, goaded by his protective instincts and a decided dislike of this  _ Jackson  _ person. "You asked him to prove himself, did you not? Well, let him do so in a way he sees fit."

"Y-Yes sir," Jackson replied, cowering under Harry's best authoritative glare, but soon all the arsehole interrogators in the world wouldn't have meant anything at all to Harry— for shortly after, Draco's composure broke.

Mind, it was only for a fraction of a second, perhaps even completely imperceptible for someone who hadn't spent a year getting to know everything about Draco Malfoy that there was to know, but Harry saw it. Those thin, pale-pink lips parted, and his thin brows rose up his forehead ever so slightly, creating an expression of shock— perhaps even hurt?— but then it was gone, smoothed over by the same mask his father used to wear. The resemblance was uncanny, really, and Harry found himself looking away, ashamed. 

"Well then." Draco cleared his throat, eyes darting about the room. "Let's proceed, shall we?"

Jackson fidgeted nervously as Draco approached him, coming quite close into his personal space. Harry knew firsthand how commanding Draco's presence could be— he liked to think that he could handle that presence tolerably better than Jackson, who was practically flinching. 

"First we'll begin with an example of weaponized pheromones," Draco began, speaking so softly that Harry had to strain to hear. "I'll have to stand quite close, as I prefer not to involve the whole room in this little display."

And then it happened. 

Even from where he sat, Harry could feel the release of Draco's pheromones. The Bond between them sang, begging Harry to go to him, to hold him and kiss him and mark him, but Harry gripped the armrests on his seat until his knuckles were white. This was Draco's moment— he couldn't ruin it by being a bonehead. Merlin knew he'd already ruined enough things for Draco anyways. It was the least he could do to sit down and shut up for once. 

"Jackson," Draco all but whispered, his eyes focused intently on the Auror's. "I want you to lie down on the floor and scratch your ear with your foot like a dog. Can you do that for me, Jackson, dear?"

To everyone's shock, Jackson did, and smiled the whole way. 

"Like this, Draco?" He asked, desperate for approval. "Is this the way?"

"Yes, darling, that's lovely," Draco smiled, seeming for a moment truly fond. "Now, there's something else I want. Will you do it?"

"Yes,  _ anything. _ " 

Harry flinched at the words. They were so pure, so sincere and loving— he felt a bit sick, watching the star-struck expression on Jackson's face. Nevertheless, Draco continued, completely and totally composed. 

"Excellent. Now, Jackson, I'd like you to rip the stones off of that wall with your bare hands. It's important to me— will you?"

Draco hadn't even finished asking before Jackson was sprinting over to the wall, clawing at the stones with all his strength. A quick look around the room told Harry that everyone else was as unnerved as he was— even the Unspeakable who had given Draco permission looked a little green. It was truly sickening, the way Jackson clawed at the wall, crying out in disappointment when he found the task nearly impossible— he even began to cry a bit, mumbling something about making Draco upset. 

"I'm not forcing him to do anything," Draco supplied to the room, speaking into the silence with a confidence unlike anything Harry had ever seen. "Unlike an Imperious curse, where I would be controlling his every move, he’d do anything for me to the best of his ability simply because I ask."

Suddenly, Jackson collapsed, and Harry felt immense relief at the lowered level of pheromones in the room. 

Draco cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself and away from the collapsed Auror. "The reason I've been hired as an Unspeakable is to assist in the research and study of secondary genders and related magic— how they manifest, what causes the physiological differences, etcetera. No one else has ever been able to manipulate pheromones to this extent. I alone have managed to hone the ability this far, and I'd like to help with research to find out exactly why. Does anyone have any questions?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, shook his head. "I've never seen anything quite like that, Mr. Malfoy. Auror Jackson is a beta— does your…  _ ability  _ extend to the other secondary genders?"

"Yes. Omegas, naturally, show the most resistance, but in the end… well, everyone succumbs."

_ Everyone succumbs.  _

Harry wished the earth would swallow him. 

"I would, however, recommend a different participant for any future exhibitions of my abilities at present," Draco smirked slightly, glancing back at poor, disoriented Jackson. "Our Auror is in no condition to bear anything else I have to offer."

"And what would that be?" Kingsley asked. "You say you're an expert on wandless combative magic?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to explain how that works before we proceed?"

At that, Draco's features softened, and he genuinely smiled. "Alright. It's a bit like Potions, magic, in the sense that every action has an equal and opposite reaction— something I can explain further if necessary, but it becomes tedious quite quickly. In any case, magic is in everything— water, air, earth, people— and the reason we can use it is because it's inside of us as well. However, because of the limited nature of humanity's ability to comprehend itself, we generally require wands to focus the magic within us to obtain a desired result. Given that, the magic I work with need not necessarily come from within me— I have learned to sense magic in others, in the environment, and with great difficulty, I at last succeeded in using it to create the results I desired. It's a bit finicky at times, being sentient, but most of the time I'm able to at least manage this much with a little coaxing."

Draco held his hand aloft, and in it crackled a ball of lightning that screeched and chirped as though enraged. The smell-taste of ozone filled Harry's mouth, and he wondered just how long Draco had practiced to be able to do that.

"Here, I have manipulated the magic in the area around my hand, which in turn moves the air that surrounds it, producing the electricity for my lightning," Draco explained, letting it dissolve with a fading crackle. "There are many other things I can do with this particular method of using magic, not least of them enhancing my own strength for a time."

To prove his point, Draco walked to the wall where Jackson had tried to rip out a stone, and then promptly succeeded where Jackson had failed. 

Harry would have been turned on if he wasn't quite so heartbroken. Draco, his mate, his lost love— he was incredible. He'd accomplished so much while he'd been away. There was so much Harry had missed, so many memories he'd never had the chance to make, and the Bond between them screamed and writhed with longing— and yet Harry felt unerring pride. He spent the rest of the hearing hanging onto every word Draco said, wishing he could tell his mate just how much he loved and supported him… even after all this time. 

So, yes, the first time was a disaster. Thankfully, the second and third times were less so, if equally dreadful and awkward. Having been Interdepartmental events (a Quidditch match and a mandatory dueling session as part of annual fitness testing respectively), there hadn't been too much of a chance for conversation, but nevertheless, both instances ended with Harry knocked flat on his back, faced with the business end of Malfoy's pointed glare, so on the whole, they were altogether pretty miserable experiences. 

As for the fourth time, well, that remained to be seen— Harry had rushed from a meeting he'd been called out of for a supposed "emergency", and found Draco strapped to an interrogation chair in the Auror department. As of yet, he hadn't plucked up the courage to go in, but every moment he waited, Draco seemed to fume a bit more, turning from red to an unhealthy shade of purple. Previously, Harry hadn't thought his shitty, shitty day could get any worse than boring meetings and cold cases getting colder, but somehow, life somehow always managed to prove him wrong. 

_ Well,  _ thought Harry to himself, staring at the door to the interrogation room with trepidation.  _ This situation isn't going to sort itself _ .  _ Might as well go at it now, before that prideful git bursts a capillary.  _

  
  


***

  
  


Draco Lucius Malfoy was  _ furious _ .

It wasn’t bad enough that he had been born omega, the least dignified of the three secondary genders. It wasn’t bad enough that he’d been raised by a hateful father and weak-willed mother who groomed him to be the perfect little henchman for The Dark Wanker instead of grooming him to be kind and compassionate. It wasn’t even bad enough that after  _ years  _ of having to prove his worth, he was still the first suspect in any hate crime committed anywhere in the wizarding world— no, on top of that series of cosmic slaps-to-the-face, it just had to be  _ Potter _ who was called in to be his interrogator on a day when he was dead in the middle of his heat. 

“Erm,” Potter began, eloquently as ever, looking quite green in the face. "You're in heat."

To be fair, it must have been a bit of a shock for Potter, coming into an interrogation room to find his boyhood rival, ex-lover, and current mate strapped to a chair and fighting down heat urges, but Draco wasn’t exactly in a mood to feel sympathy for the bastard. After all, it was  _ Head Auror Potter's  _ stupid little underling that dragged Draco here in the first place— really, what sort of establishment was Potter trying to run, taking on a job that  _ should  _ have been for Internal Affairs were it legitimate?

“Good afternoon to you too, Auror Potter,” Draco snapped, unable to control his anger as well as he thought he would, and Potter, the fool, actually flinched. “Come to shut me away, have you? Changed your mind about my vacation suite in Azkaban that I never got to enjoy? Was the last time we fucked not convincing enough of my innocence, so you've come back to have another go?"

Potter swallowed, looking more than a little guilty— as he should, thought Draco, but he held his tongue just to see what the specky bastard had to say for himself. Definitely not because it was easier not to say anything than to say  _ something _ and risk admitting aloud that he wanted Potter, that the Bond was  _ screaming  _ and clawing for his mate. No, certainly not that. 

“I didn’t know you’d be in here when they called me out of my meeting, honest,” he replied with disgusting Gryffindor sincerity. “There must be some sort of mistake. Y-You’re in heat, after all, it wouldn’t be right at all to bring you in with you in this… state. And— and obviously you aren't guilty of… whatever it is."

Draco snorted. As if. “There are no mistakes in the Ministry.”

That wasn’t exactly true in every case, but in Draco’s, it was certain. At least, the pile of hate mail on his coffee table said so, and Draco was quite inclined to agree with it at times. 

Before Potter could stutter out another ridiculous sentence, the scrawny Junior Auror that had brought Draco in burst through the door, looking quite haggard. 

“Potter, sir, I’m glad you made it— oh bloody  _ hell,  _ what is that smell?”

_ That smell, _ as the pipsqueak had so delicately put it, was Draco— his pheromones were spiking and he was fighting every moment to keep from squirming as the slightest trickle of slick ran down from his ass. If he were anywhere else, Draco might have been a touch embarrassed, but since he’d been dragged from his cushy office at the Manor in the middle of working at home to be thrust into an interrogation chair without so much as a ‘by your leave’ or an apology for the bloody fucking inconvenience, he was decidedly rather smug about making everyone else in the room as uncomfortable as he was.

“Dra— erm, Mr. Malfoy happens to be in heat,” Potter explained, looking more strained— and angry— by the second. "Are you aware that it's illegal to interrogate a suspect under duress of this nature?"

The greenhorn paled. "N-no, sir."

"No? Well, are you aware that it is also illegal for us to interrogate another Ministry employee?" Potter's eyes grew dangerously dark, and it took all of Draco's self-control not to whimper with need. 

"No… no sir."

"I see," Potter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, you're extremely lucky that Mr. Malfoy was feeling merciful today. If he were truly cross with you, you'd be carrion by now. Which, I guess I should explain that— magic-suppressing cuffs don't work on Mr. Malfoy. He could have killed you at any point today. Why did you arrest him instead of calling in a team anyways?”

“Well— erm— he was a suspect in my case,” the Junior Auror replied, skittishly, eyes flicking over to Draco, who was still scowling. “The one with the omega trafficking ring. They keep abducting pureblood omegas, you know, and we've determined there’s a leak somewhere in the Ministry, so I thought— well, if anyone were going to be a traitor, it would be him.”

Despite everything Draco had been through, that still stung. He tried not to let it show, tried to push that hurt far, far down, but his eyes stung with frustration. He would never, ever outlive the shadow of that stupid fucking noseless  _ freak _ , never be more than the stupid mark on his arm. To the rest of the world, Draco would always be a traitor, a coward, and a failure, no matter how hard he worked.

It wasn’t fair.

The fact that Potter was livid was small consolation.

“Junior Auror Wilson,” he all but growled— Merlin, was that sexy to Draco's mutinous omega instincts—hands balled into fists at his sides. “Please tell me that you did  _ not  _ arrest someone that fits the  _ exact description  _ of a potential victim for the crime he was arrested for.”

“Well, Mr. Potter, sir, I—”

Junior Auror Wilson’s bowing and scraping, however, was a wasted effort— Potter was past the point of mercy. “Leave while you still have a job. You’re temporarily suspended— we’ll talk in my office later.”

Disgraced, Wilson left, and Potter’s shoulders slumped as though he were exhausted. 

“I’m sorry,” he told Draco as he freed him from the magic-dampening cuffs of the interrogation chair. “I’m— I— yeah. Sorry.”

Merlin, this was awkward. Every whiff of Potter’s scent was toruture— the accidental brush of his hand against Draco’s was scalding. 

“C’est la vie,” Draco replied, trying not to sound as strangled as he felt. Abruptly, he realized this was the first time in nearly five and a half years that he’d said so more than two words to his mate, and Draco felt sick. 

“No, it’s not ‘c’est la vie’, Draco,” Potter growled, and Draco shivered at the sound of his given name from his mate’s lips. “It’s not right that you were fucking  _ arrested _ when by all rights you should have a guard posted in front of every entrance to the Manor—”

“I’m not a child, Potter—”

“No you aren’t but— ”

“But  _ what? _ ”

“But… " Potter swallowed, his scent rippling with apprehension, and Draco had to fight to keep from shivering. "Look, this was a massive cock-up, but this just sort of proves the point that… oh fuck it, Draco, will you please spend this heat at Grimmauld?"

At first, Draco bristled. How dare he! What  _ fucking  _ right did Potter think he have to make Draco relive the ache of his loss afresh, to ask for sex after  _ shattering his heart _ — but before Draco could hex him into next week, gray eyes met chartreuse green ones, and Draco saw what he was convinced had never existed in the first place. 

It was  _ his  _ Harry looking back at him, not Potter. The Harry who held him close at night, the Harry that cooked for him and cared for him that time he caught the flu (and subsequently caught it himself)— he was Draco's mate, and there was a deep, aching concern in his expression. He was…  _ worried _ . Worried about Draco's heat, but not worried that he was spending it alone or with someone else— no, Draco realized, thinking back to the omega trafficking ring case, he was worried about Draco spending his heat  _ unprotected.  _

Draco's heart cracked, reminding him that no matter how much he hated Potter, he still loved Harry. He would always,  _ always  _ love Harry, until his dying breath. 

Slowly, purposefully, he brought his hand up to rest on Harry's shoulder, allowing his thumb to brush the Mating Bite that remained un-Glamoured on his neck— the mark that proclaimed to all the world that he was taken, belonging to Draco and Draco alone. Harry shivered at the touch, and Draco struggled with his desire, with the ache for his alpha to touch him, to fuck hin right there in the interrogation room. Nevertheless, Draco steeled himself, temporarily disturbing the flow of his pheromones, just to calm his alpha enough to think rationally. 

"The Manor is heavily warded," he said gently, feeling Harry physically relax under his touch. "I am an extremely capable wizard— you know this— and I have a small army of House-elves that are more than capable of hexing the bits off of anyone who wishes me harm in the event that I'm indisposed. I'm safe, Po— Harry. I'm safe, as long as I can get back to the Manor."

"... Fine,” Harry sighed, still uneasy. He looked like he wanted to argue, but an additional push of pheromones was all it took to push him into compliance. “Come with me, you can use the Floo in my office."

As they walked out of the interrogation room, several pairs of eyes followed them as their coworkers began to notice the scent of Draco's heat, and there were nudges and whispers all around, no doubt focused on the scandal of seeing the two of them together. "Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, Ex-mates: Harry's Secret Dating Life Exposed", _The Prophet_ had boldly proclaimed to the world not even a week after their breakup— doubtless, the headline was running through the heads of all the onlookers, but soon enough, Harry's possessive, protective snarling put an end to prying gazes, and they made it to Harry's office without too much of a fuss.

But that wasn’t the end of Draco’s troubles, oh no. That would have been far too easy.

As Draco moved towards the fireplace, Harry stepped in front of him. The alpha's stance wasn't aggressive or demanding— he simply looked concerned, maybe even frightened— but Draco felt cornered nonetheless. He wasn't ready to have a confrontation with Harry, especially not in his current state, and he just wanted to get  _ home _ . 

_ Out of the frying pan…  _

"Move, Potter."

"No."

_ And into the fire. _

"Potter—"

"I just wanna talk."

The expression on Harry's face was absolutely tortured, but Draco knew what he had to do. 

"Yes, well, I'm afraid I can't stay and chat," Draco replied, cringing mentally as he shoved a hand forward, sending a powerful blast of magic Harry's way to knock him into the far wall. "Another time."

By "another time", Draco absolutely meant never— and the instant he stepped out of his own fireplace, he blocked his Floo for good measure. 

Before this whole incident, Draco had been doing just fine, riding the downward slope of his heat for the next hour or so as he worked. Without a partner, he’d just been distracting himself until the next big wave came along— no big deal, really, just as much as he suspected any single, unmated omega did— but when he’d been dragged from his home, strapped to a chair, and forced into a room with quite literally the last person on earth he’d wanted to see, it had disturbed his inner calm a bit. 

That is to say, now that he was home, he couldn’t reach his Magic Box Of Dildos quite fast enough.

Fuck, but he remembered Potter's touch like it were only moments ago that they'd shared a cycle. There was so much to appreciate about the alpha— like those thighs. Circe and Salazar, Potter’s thighs were so thick and muscular, and Draco couldn't help but fantasize about them as he grabbed some toys, locking himself away in his room. It was so much, remembering what those thighs had felt like under his hands, how they’d tasted— as he pulled his slick-wet pants down, Draco wanted to be bent over them again, maybe to be spanked. He wanted those big, strong fingers prying him open, fingering his arse, perhaps even in his mouth, something to suck on while Harry fucked him from behind.

Momentarily back to Earth, Draco winced as the largest dildo he had breached his rim, but he charmed it to fuck him fast and hard anyways, just the way he imagined Harry would if he were there. He closed his eyes and felt the ghost of his mate's touch, but wasn’t enough. It wasn't Harry— it would never be enough. 

Draco scratched his own thighs so hard it hurt, trying to lose himself to sensation. He wanted so badly to forget what it felt like to taste ozone and smell the earth and wind and rain while he was being utterly worshipped, pleasured,  _ dominated _ — he wanted to forget how much he ached for rough, calloused hands on his hips, for the tingle of restraints bearing a too-familiar magical signature, for the love, the utterly fake, false love that shone in those eyes like peridots shining back at him. Violently, he yanked at his own hair until tears formed in his eyes, and not for the first time, he considered sending a note to Harry, considered ending his misery for just a little while at the low, low price of the tatters of his dignity. 

_ Really,  _ the small voice in his head whispered,  _ he doesn’t have to love you to make you feel good. Let him fuck you, fill you with pups— there’s no reason you shouldn’t. _

But there were. There were a thousand and one reasons why Draco shouldn’t ever even consider it, so he screwed his eyes shut and let the dildo fuck him mercilessly while he clawed and scratched at himself, trying to feel anything other than loss and frustration. Punishingly, he filled his mind with images of Harry— no, not Harry, merciful Salazar, please not  _ his  _ Harry, but  _ Potter _ — fucking other people, other betas, other omegas. Oh, and did Draco picture them all, the Weaselette, Kingsley’s male secretary, a thousand others, just to prove to himself that Potter had never felt anything for him. It wasn’t even hard for Draco to picture it, Potter fucking other people, even with his Mark in full view, and Draco felt sick even as he came in white spurts all over his clean sheets.

No, Potter had never felt anything for him, Draco thought as tears dried on his face. It had only ever been a mission— he just had to remember that. 

___________

_ Darkling I listen; and, for many a time _

_ I have been half in love with easeful Death, _

_ Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, _

_ To take into the air my quiet breath; _

_ Now more than ever seems it rich to die, _

_ To cease upon the midnight with no pain, _

_ While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad _

_ In such an ecstasy! _

(Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats)


	2. Mondays Suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didnt get this chapter exactly where I wanted it, but I don't forsee it getting much better :/ anyways it isn't entirely unreadable, so I hope yall enjoy it all the same!

Every morning for the next two weeks, Harry woke with raging erections from instensely erotic dreams that featured his mate, and every morning he wanked himself so hard he had flashbacks to his teenage years. 

Apparently, seeing Draco in heat like that had affected Harry in some way— really, if he was honest, it was like some fucked up, sexually-fueled version of sixth year at Hogwarts all over again. The only thing on Harry's mind at any given moment, day or night, was Draco. During the day, every victim in every case file had Draco's face, every uncaught criminal was a potential threat— at night, well… even those times that Harry drank himself stupid, Draco was there, haunting his dreams with the scent of bitter wine and sweet omega mixed to form a drug tailor-made to knock Harry flat on his arse. 

As if that wasn't hell enough, Draco and  _ Ron  _ of all people had been partnered for an assignment— some deal about breaking a curse on an amulet at a crime scene Ron was working on, one of the abandoned sites from the omega trafficking ring— and Ron wouldn't stop singing Draco's praises.

"Malfoy!" He exclaimed to Harry over lunch one day, grinning from ear to ear. "Used to couldn't stand the bugger, and then he turns out to be the most competent bloke I've ever worked with! World's gone bloody mad, I say."

After seeing Harry's glum mood, Ron seemed to have realized his mistake in bringing Draco up— Ron didn't apologize, but he let the subject drop when Harry unconsciously growled low in his throat. 

Awkward lunch conversation or not, however, it  _ was  _ sort of a relief to have Draco and Ron on a team together. There was no one in the world that Harry trusted more than Ron (besides Hermoine, but that's because Ron was a bit thick at times), and if Draco was going to be working closely with anyone, Harry couldn't have hand-picked a better partner. Ron was a strong, powerful beta, neutral yet capable— and ironically enough, all protectiveness on Harry's part aside, Ron and Draco's skill set matched up beautifully, with two strategic minds that worked as well together as a sword and a shield. 

So, knowing that Draco was well cared-for, Harry was able to infinitesimally relax on some fronts. Or, well, at least he was until about four-thirty the following Monday afternoon, when an explosion rattled the windows of the entire Ministry building and the appropriate alarms sounded off to notify everyone of a problem in the Department of Mysteries. 

Thanks to his lightning-fast Seeker reflexes and years of training and experience, Harry was out of his seat and sprinting towards the Department in a matter of seconds, his Bond screaming at him to  _ go, run, fight, protect  _ as it sensed Draco's potential peril. 

As his feet pounded the tiles beneath him, Harry's mind was racing to figure out what might have happened. The Department of Mysteries was  _ heavily  _ warded against all manner of malicious spells—  _ especially  _ blasting curses that were often woven into objects, since the Curse Breakers' offices were in that direction. In fact, it was  _ so _ heavily warded that the only way such a blast could have occurred was if someone had taken down the wards entirely. In other words… someone from the Ministry. 

_ "They keep abducting pureblood omegas, you know,"  _ Wilson had said during the Draco Debacle,  _ "And we've determined there’s a leak somewhere in the Ministry…" _

Harry suppressed a groan. It was too close not to be a coincidence— and Draco, a pureblood omega, was working on that cursed amulet involved in the investigation. Worry ate corrosively at Harry, and he pushed himself to run even faster.

Treason. What a fucking Monday thing to happen. But, in Draco's infinitely wise words— c'est la vie.

Harry was halfway to the Department of Mysteries when another blast sounded, and he caught sight of Ron running in the opposite direction— odd, Ron was usually, like Harry, running  _ towards _ the sound of a blast. Upon closer observation, Harry noticed shrapnel lodged in his skin, and it was then that Harry realized that the only reason Ron would be running  _ away  _ from the explosion would be because he was nearby when it happened. And, by extension, he could probably tell Harry if anything had happened to Draco.

"Ron, report!" Harry's voice boomed across the corridor, and Ron's head snapped over immediately, his expression grim.

"Harry, mate, it's Malfoy— I'm getting a Healer, he's injured and holding them off, actually, two dead, and two of ours arrived for backup—"

That was the last Harry heard before he saw scarlet, and his body went into autopilot, dashing off towards Draco's office with his magic howling in his ears. Distantly, Harry knew he should be calm, should approach this rationally to obtain the best results and make the best decisions, but all he could think about was Draco, injured, fighting for his life— rationality was never a choice. All he could do was run, his magic ripping up tile from the floor and shattering glass from windows as he went. Whoever,  _ whatever  _ was in  _ his _ Ministry building, harming  _ his  _ mate, Harry would tear them to fucking shreds. 

When Harry arrived at the scene, there were six bodies bloodied on the floor, and Draco was standing alone against two wizards, casting a shielding spell behind him with one hand and flinging curses with the other. Behind the shield were two children and a young woman, no doubt civilians brought in for questioning— the spell was strong, but Draco was bleeding out of his right side from a nasty-looking gash, along with a couple superficial scrapes on his face. 

Harry acted without thinking. 

_ "Avada Kedavra!"  _

One of Draco's assailants dropped to the ground, dead. Draco looked over in shock, but quickly focused his energy on the last remaining enemy, putting him in a strong, humming Body-Bind. 

It wasn't enough for Harry. His mate was wounded, bleeding,  _ hurt  _ because of this bastard— capture wasn't even close to enough.  _ Death  _ wasn't even enough, not first anyways. First, Harry wanted to see him suffer _.  _

_ "Crucio!" _

Harry was so numb that he hardly noticed when Draco shoved him. 

"What the  _ hell  _ are you doing, Potter?" he hissed, weak from his wounds but no less severe in his remand. "You're not some piss-ant Junior Auror, you're the head of the department! You can't just go throwing around Unforgivables like some sort of lunatic!"

One blink, then two, and Draco seemed to come more into focus for Harry.

"Draco," Harry breathed, placing one hand on his mate's cheek, searching those icy-gray eyes— what for, he couldn't have said. "Oh, God,  _ Draco. _ "

Harry always did revert to Muggle swears when he was well and truly upset.

"That's my name," Draco groused, holding his bleeding side. "Now pull yourself together, people are coming. They'll see you if you don't shove off, you idiot."

Harry would do no such thing. His mate was injured, distraught— there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he'd move so much as an inch farther away from Draco's side.

"Ron's fetching a Healer," Harry replied nonsensically, nuzzling his mate's neck, scenting him. "Please be okay."

"I'll be fine if you get  _ off  _ me, you great oaf, they'll  _ see _ you!"

Even as people flooded the area, Harry didn't move until Ron pried him away, introducing Harry to the Healer so his alpha instincts wouldn't freak the moment she touched Draco. That done, Ron steered Harry away from the crowd and into the hallway, where lucidity cut razor-sharp into Harry's perspective as though it had never left. 

"I want that sonofabitch in an interrogation room within the hour," he snarled, and Ron nodded in agreement. "In the meantime, I want every Auror on duty figuring out how in the ever-loving  _ fuck  _ those bastards got this far past security."

"About that." Ron was chewing on the inside of his cheek— a nervous habit that meant about a dozen calculations were flying through his head. "I have a bit of a theory on the why, if not the how."

Harry's expression darkened. 

"Talk."

"Well, you know that omega trafficking ring case you kicked Wilson off of and gave to— well, us?"

"What about it?"

Ron fidgeted slightly. "Well, the place we found that amulet in was filled with curses and dark magic, as you know, but as Malfoy was untangling everything, he found pheromone-enhancing spells and all sorts of nasty stuff like that. It was basically a sex shack, and then this amulet… it's used to make and control an omega sex slave."

Harry blanched, but Ron wasn't finished.

"On top of that, we found some half-burnt book in the fireplace— not one that's been printed, see, one that's been copied by hand or Quick-Quill and bound with leather— some kind of manifesto about omega inferiority."

Ah. "So this was probably the same perps, and when they found out the amulet was left behind and found by the Ministry, they wanted it back before anything could be discovered," Harry finished, the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place.

Ron grimaced. "Yeah, that. And one other detail." 

"Which is?"

"There may have been a specific passage about you and Malfoy in the manifesto," Ron admitted, fingering his wand. "He asked me not to tell you, and I didn't see a reason to, but given the kind of language… well, mate, they felt kind of strongly about the way an omega 'spat on' his alpha mate by leaving and then— Merlin forbid— having a career outside of barefooted-ness and pregnancy."

Finally, Harry understood. It wasn't that the perps wanted their amulet back, or even that they wanted Draco as an omega for their ring— no, Draco had been targeted because of his ill-begotten affiliation with Harry, and now people were dead and Draco was wounded. Per usual, it was all Harry's fucking fault.

"Fuck." Harry ran a hand over his face, feeling crushed under the weight of responsibility.

Ron shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Okay. Alright, okay, fine, this is workable," Harry sighed, hoping he was right. "When— er, if— the Healers clear Draco, I want to meet with him. I'm sure he knows by now why the break-in happened, but I think he also has a right to know that I know, and that… "

Harry couldn't finish his sentence, but Ron nodded, understanding what Harry meant without having to actually hear the words. 

"Got it. Anything else?"

Harry shook his head. 

"Once I have that bastard in a chair and I've squeezed every last drop of truth out of him, I'm throwing him out the nearest window and I'm going home."

Ron grinned, but there was a dimness there that Harry felt reflected in his own expression. 

"Cheers, mate. I'll be off then."

Harry nodded, and they parted, walking in opposite directions. Ron had some damage control to oversee, and Harry, well… Harry intended to oversee an interrogation, recording devices  _ off.  _

  
  


***

  
  


Draco was so fucking  _ sick  _ of being injured. He hated pain, he hated fear, and he hated feeling helpless— and yet that was all he ever seemed to feel. By the time he turned sixteen, he'd been dragged into a world of turmoil and danger, and somehow, despite surviving all these years, he hadn't managed to navigate his way out of it. Perhaps the world just  _ was  _ dangerous and full of turmoil— it certainly seemed that way, given that Draco was currently missing half his side thanks to staying out of the field for a day, in supposedly the most secure building in the country. 

But, he supposed, it couldn't be helped. Draco made the decision to pursue a career filled with danger and strife long ago— it wouldn't do to fuss over it now, especially since he had been mercifully spared from the same fate as the other two Unspeakables that had been with him earlier in the day. Three wizards in— six in all, counting the assailants— and only two out of them survived… and even then, both survivors left injured. It was beyond lucky. Draco should be thankful instead of whining. 

Still, what the Healer had told him before she was whisked away to help with another patient was haunting, floating in the back of his mind like a wraith. 

_ You're a lucky man, Mr. Malfoy,  _ she'd told him, smiling wryly.  _ Any farther down and it would have ripped into your womb, causing damage beyond repair to your ability to reproduce. Let's try to stay on the correct end of blasting curses from now on, yes? _

Draco was still sick thinking about it. Sure, his relationship with Harry was incredibly fucked up, but… the idea of children was still one that Draco cherished. He  _ wanted  _ pups one day, though he wasn't sure what route he was going to take to make that happen, and to be so close to having that dream taken away was gut-wrenching. 

"Oi, Malfoy!" 

A head full of red hair poked into the curtain that surrounded Draco's hospital bed, and Draco couldn't suppress his grin. 

"Evening, Weasely."

Ronald Weasley grinned back at him, but his eyes betrayed his concern. "Are you alright? No one's poisoned you yet for being such a fussy git?"

"On the contrary, they patched me up pretty well," he replied, poking at the open hole in his uniform that revealed newly-healed skin. "I'll still be sore for a couple weeks, mind, but it's much better than the alternative."

"Glad to hear it, mate." Ron paused for a minute, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Erm, I have some… news."

Draco raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Harry requested that you meet him in his office to go over some of the details from today. He knows everything now— I didn't have a choice, y'know?— but anyways, he seemed really shaken up, says you guys need to talk."

All the blood drained from Draco's face, and he felt even more sick than he already had. He wasn't sure if he was ready to face Harry yet, not so soon after all the physical and emotional trauma he'd sustained over the last twenty-four hour period— especially not when the last time they were together, Harry couldn't manage to pull himself together long enough to stop giving Draco stubble burns from all that scent marking business. Circe's tits, Draco  _ still  _ smelled like him. 

Still… Harry was Head Auror all the same, and he probably really did need an accurate, competent account for his reports… oh fuck it, what choice did Draco have? Trauma or not, he had a job to do. 

"Alright, send a Patronus and let him know I'll stop by his office in an hour," Draco sighed, shoulders feeling heavier by the moment. "I've got some things to take care of."

Weasley raised a brow— an expression he likely picked up from Draco's own influence. "Things?"

"Oh sod off, Weasel, I'm Floo-ing home as soon as they discharge me to look at my flowers a while before I have to deal with that massive pile of shit." Draco smiled a bit thinking of the lovely peonies in the Malfoy gardens that needed tending. "A man just needs a break sometimes."

Truthfully, Draco was just melancholy, and looking at pretty things tended to ease his mind, but he didn't feel like explaining that to Weasley, who laughed at him nonetheless.

"Alright, mate, I'll pass along the message," Weasley chuckled, placing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Take care, you hear?"

"Naturally," Draco sniffed, but his heart warmed ever so slightly at the sentiment. 

Once Weasley had sent off his Patronus, Draco took one of St. Mungos' Floos home. Ordinarily, he would have just Apparated, but given the amount of pain potions that had been forced down his throat, it was probably more prudent to take the mode of transportation that  _ didn't  _ give Draco a shot at splinching himself. Besides, he had to save up  _ some _ bad luck for his meeting with Harry later— couldn't spend it all in one spot.

A flash of green later, Draco was standing in the middle of the east wing of the Manor— and outside the window of the drawing room he stepped out into, he had the perfect view of the Manor's gardens. 

Lovely flowers, trees, and hedges of every variety stretched for miles, coloring the world in vibrant greens, blues, pinks, and yellows— truly a wonderful sight. It was a dreamscape, the labor of many lifetimes, spanning from Draco's great-great-great-great-great grandfather to the present. It broke Draco's heart that most of the plants had wilted from the dark magic they'd absorbed during the war— so much so that he'd worked in them personally to ensure that they were clear of all dark magic to give them a fighting chance at regrowth. 

Under Draco's care and a little bit of magic, the garden was back to its former glory within a fortnight. 

Perhaps a bit naively, Draco had always hoped that someday he'd be able to heal like that too. He felt that he had grown since the war, but he wasn't sure that he'd ever feel as vibrant and alive as he once had. It was nice to consider it though— nice to look at something that had not only survived, but learned to thrive. 

Laying aside his bone-deep weariness, Draco allowed himself a smile before dropping his cape and allowing his shoulders to loosen. For an hour, he was a free man, owing nothing to no one— no matter the stack of letters on his coffee table from his father and whoever his most recent hate-mailer was, no matter the Unspeakable uniform that still clung to him like a second skin, no matter the Mating Bite that bound him body and soul to a man that he wasn't sure had ever loved him. Just for this hour, this small fraction of his day, Draco could just exist, no pressure, no worries, no pain— but plenty of peonies. 

It was only a small respite, but Draco wouldn't trade it for anything. That garden represented all that he one day hoped to be— it was his love, his redemption, and his legacy, all rolled into one.

  
  


***

  
  


When Draco stepped out of Harry's office Floo, he took Harry's breath away. 

Not because he was gorgeous (though he inevitably was, even whilst wearing joggers and— was that an AC/DC t-shirt?), and, surprisingly, not even because he was so angry at Harry for being a bonehead that he literally knocked the wind out of him. No, Draco took Harry's breath away because he stepped out into his office alive, well, and smelling to the world exactly like Harry's mate. 

Which, he was.

Harry's instincts sang with glee, and the Bond between them lurched as though it were a ship on a stormy sea. 

"You wanted to see me?" Draco asked, voice small and unsure, and Harry had to lean back against his desk to remain standing. 

"I— yes, I did."

Draco's brows rose expectantly, as if to say  _ 'Well, get on with it,'  _ but Harry just couldn't get anything past the wad of cotton in his mouth. 

Abruptly, Draco turned, facing away. "You know, we've both had quite a stressful day, maybe I shouldn't have—  _ oh. _ "

Oh indeed— Harry had slowly, deliberately snaked his arms around Draco from the back, pressing their bodies together until they were touching chest-to-back down their entire length. Lost in the sensation of such utter closeness, Harry nuzzled into Draco's neck once more, finding himself rock hard against Draco's arse as though he hadn't so much as touched anyone in all the years they'd been apart. 

"Harry, you can't do this," Draco said hoarsely, and it sounded like a plea. "I can't bear it. Please— I'm begging you."

Reluctantly, Harry released Draco, and his mate turned to him, arms folded 

"If that was all you wanted to do, then I'll be on my way."

"No, no," Harry sighed, running a hand over his face as though to wake himself up. Fuck, he was being a bonehead again. "Sorry, sorry. I needed to talk to you about why today happened, and then I need you to give me any other information you've been leaving out. You  _ know  _ keeping information from me is only going to make things worse if it has any effect, and I just want this ring shut down and the perpetrators brought to justice."

Draco shook his head, averting his gaze. "Weasley says he told you everything— which means there's nothing I know that you don't."

Harry snorted. 

"Uh-huh, tell that to someone who doesn't know you. All of it, Draco. I need to know."

"Fine. In addition to the manifesto there have been… letters."

Harry's brows raised.

"Letters?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Yes, letters. Of the hateful variety. Probably of no relation, but since the manifesto cites us personally… one can never be too sure."

"I'm sorry."

That's all Harry felt he ever said anymore. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Draco, however, was quick to sweep things under the rug. 

"Quite alright. You can’t exactly control what I get in the post."

Harry shook his head. "That's not the only thing I'm sorry for."

"Look, you don't have to do this— just put the heroics aside for once and—"

"Yes I do. I do have to do this."

Harry hadn't meant to sound quite so harsh— Draco actually flinched at his tone— but he pressed on, unwilling to let the issue go unresolved. 

"Draco, these people targeted you because of  _ me.  _ I've put you in harm's way, and there's nothing I can do to fix that… but I  _ can _ apologize for linking us together in the first place."

Draco paled, and it was all Harry could do to keep his hands to himself. 

“I guess… I guess what I want you to know is this,” Harry said, drawing a shaky breath. “It was a mistake to enter a relationship with you, knowing I was supposed to be spying on you instead. It was a mistake to be so careless as to let you find out on your own instead of being upfront with it myself. I regret those things very deeply, but most of all, I regret hurting you. That was the furthest thing from my intentions, please believe me. I was selfish, that I know, but… I never meant to be cruel.”

Harry reached out then, his fingers brushing Draco’s, and Draco allowed their hands to entwine, connecting them physically even as the Bond connected them spiritually. 

“So, I’m sorry, for all that,” Harry continued, squeezing Draco’s hand. “But there is one things that I’m not sorry for.”

Draco shook his head, and Harry’s heart cracked. “Please, Harry—”

“I have to say it.” If he didn’t let the words out willingly, Harry was afraid they would crack open his chest plate and crawl out that way. “I’m not sorry for falling in love with you, and I’m not sorry that I can’t  _ stop  _ loving you. That, I’ll never apologize for, because I’ll never, ever regret it.”

Draco’s hand trembled in his own, and Harry suddenly remembered that Draco must have spent several hours at St. Mungo’s to treat his wounds from the battle earlier. 

“May I see your wound?” Harry asked, not quite able to stop himself.

“I— yeah,” Draco replied almost distantly. “There’s— there’s not much left to it, it’s just sore.”

Harry dropped to his knees, kneeling at Draco’s feet. Gently, he lifted the hem of Draco's shirt, relishing in his mate's gasp as he splayed his hand over the place on Draco's side that had once been mostly missing, but was now scarring over with newly-healed pink skin. 

Above him, Draco swallowed thickly. “They— uhm— they said it was a close thing, today. Said that, ah, if it had been a little farther down, I would have… I would have lost my ability to-to have pups, you know.”

The brokenness in Draco’s voice was too much for Harry to bear. At once, he was on his feet, pulling his omega close, cradling Draco in his arms without a second thought. Surprisingly, Draco didn't push him away, instead wrapping his arms around Harry in return, and after a moment, a small sniffle came from where Draco's head was buried in Harry's shoulder. Soon enough, that sniffle turned into heart-breaking, gut-wrenching sobs that, if Harry knew his mate, Draco had been bottling up for quite a while, and Harry's heart ached. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Harry murmured against Draco's neck, rubbing soothing circles on his mate’s back. "That's it, let it out."

“I’m being so foolish,” Draco hiccuped, clinging even tighter to Harry. “I mean, I’m alright, nothing was damaged. It just came a little close and I— I was scared. Scared of losing the option, I guess.”

Harry bit down hard on his tongue as his brain conjured the image of what their pups might look like— little darlings with white-blonde hair and green eyes, or dark-haired, silver-eyed little devils who got the best and worst traits of their fathers. “You’re not being foolish at all.  _ I’m  _ afraid and I don’t even— I can’t— yeah. So it’s okay to be scared, it really is, just… just so long as you don’t let that fear define you.”

They stood that way for an immeasurable amount of time— Draco crying, Harry holding him— and Harry never wanted to leave that moment. This was the closest they had willingly been in a long time, and smelling himself on Draco did terrible things to Harry’s alpha instincts. It was just so  _ nice  _ to finally be able to touch, hold,  _ love  _ his mate, to be alone together, honest and free of all their baggage, even for a little while. Harry would sell his soul for this, no questions asked. 

But then Draco pulled away, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and the spell was broken. 

“Did you ever find out who the bloody hell was behind all this?” Draco asked, swiping a tissue from the box on Harry’s desk. “I’d like to find them and give them a swift kick in the arse if I could.”

Harry scratched the back of his head. He wasn't exactly sure if the truth would go over well, but the last time he'd lied to his mate, his world had crumbled right before his eyes, so… the truth it was. 

“Well, I got what I could out of the one we left alive, which wasn’t much. He was just some hired wand, apparently. I… might have got a bit angry with him, truth be told— and, erm, I may have thrown him out a window.”

Draco gaped. "You did not."

"I did."

And then, something wonderful happened. 

Draco began to laugh. 

"You are absolutely spare, Harry James Potter," he giggled, clutching his sides. "Throwing a man out a bloody window— who the hell thinks of such a thing? 'Head Auror' my bony white arse, they've promoted a second year from Hogwarts to the position."

"Hang on a second, you're hardly being fair!" Harry protested, but he was laughing all the same. 

"But aren't I, you berk?"

"My reaction was completely rational, I'll have you know." Harry tried to sound indignant, but his shaking shoulders and loopy grin gave him away. 

"Hmm, my rational and your rational have always been rather different, haven't they?" Draco mused, still mirthful even as they both realized the distance between them was still rather small. "I don't think you've ever once been my definition of rational in your entire life."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe not, but it's arguably my most loveable quality."

And damn if that wasn't the worst thing Harry could have said. Draco's smile fell, and he diverted his eyes, their gleeful moment gone entirely. 

"Yeah," Draco agreed, his expression tight. "It is."

Harry couldn't bear it any longer. He was sick and tired of pretending everything was fine, pretending they weren't both hurting from their unresolved past— he was done, over it, completely fed-up. The doubt and insecurity in Draco's eyes was too much, the tired slump of his shoulders overwhelming, and Harry knew what he had to do. 

He surged forward and kissed Draco gently, chastely on the lips. 

Draco pulled away, hesitant.

"Harry—"

"If you don't want this, say it now," Harry said, pressing their foreheads together. "I told you, Draco— I love you. I'll love you now, I'll love you later, and I'll love you still if you refuse me until your dying breath. I just— I've missed you, sweetheart. Come home with me, even just for a night, let me cook for you and see you off to sleep. Let me take care of you."

"Just for a night?" Draco echoed, contemplating. 

"If that's what you'll give me. It doesn't have to go any further than a meal and a warm bed."

Slowly, almost unsure, Draco nodded. 

"A-alright," he managed, swallowing hard as Harry pulled away. "Only for a night." 

A weight inside Harry's chest seemed to be lifted. Suddenly, it became easier to breathe, easier to move, and he couldn't help but smile as he took Draco's hand. 

"Thank you," he replied simply, and Draco's lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. 

"Let's go, Harry, I'm knackered."

Well, Harry could hardly argue with that. With a flash of Floo powder, they stepped out into Grimmauld Place, stumbling ever-so-slightly on the step down. 

"Make yourself at home," Harry said, somewhat unnecessarily, since Draco had once practically lived there himself. "Kreacher is gone for the night, so I'll bring out a cuppa."

Harry turned and left Draco to settle in the living room, heading for the kitchen to prepare something nice. If he was honest with himself, he fully expected Draco to be snuggled up in a blanket the way he used to by the time the tea was ready, and Harry's alpha instincts preened at the thought of making his omega comfortable and satisfied. Oh, he would be so lovely, bundled up and smelling like Harry— it would take every ounce of his self control not to touch and kiss every inch of Draco he could reach. 

Fortunately, however, Draco saved him the trouble of it.

Before the tea water even began to boil, Harry could hear soft footsteps nearing the kitchen, and Draco appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and face fixed in a terrible glare that could probably maim a small animal. Harry instinctively reached for his wand as Draco angrily approached, but when Draco grabbed him by the collar of his Auror robes, Harry realized what, exactly, was happening.

Draco wasn't angry, not really. Instead, he was… frustrated, obviously having worked himself into quite a state while he was left alone with his thoughts. 

"This," Draco hissed, gesturing between the two of them. "Is a fucking terrible decision. It's completely barmy, and I'm blaming you for it."

With that, Draco crashed their lips together unceremoniously, fisting a hand in Harry's curls so tight that Harry worried just a bit about whether or not Draco was going to pull them out entirely. 

Wordlessly, Harry allowed himself to be pushed backwards until the counter dug into his hips, and Draco caged him in, kissing with tongue and teeth as though he meant to devour. It was filthy, heady, and perfect, and Harry couldn't resist the urge to force his hands down the back of Draco's joggers and pull their clothed cocks flush together. 

"I've missed you so much," Harry groaned as Draco yanked at the buttons of his uniform, too impatient to properly unbutton them. "God, Draco, you have no idea how much."

The Bond between them was crackling and sparking with connection— a pleasant surprise, if Harry was honest. After so many years of neglect, Harry had worried that the Bond might have lost its strength, diminished slightly. It was far from uncommon for a Bond to loosen in the presence of distance and animosity— something Harry and Draco had in spades— so it would be more than reasonable to assume the worst… but judging by the way the Bond shot searing arousal throughout Harry's body at the brush of Draco's lips across his Mark, it hadn't faded in the slightest. An intense relief washed over Harry at the realization, and he couldn't help smiling against Draco's lips, gentling their kisses into something a bit more tame. 

"The kettle's boiling," Harry murmured against his omega's lips, shrugging out of the top half of his robes at Draco's insistence. "Should take care of that."

"Fuck the kettle," Draco grumbled impatiently, fiddling blindly at the stove until the burner was turned off. "I want your full attention, Potter, and by Merlin's saggy balls I mean to have it."

Harry grinned. That, he could do. "Your wish is my command."

He made to lift Draco by his bum, the way he used to do all those years ago when Draco was feeling particularly needy, but the omega hissed in pain and Harry immediately released him altogether. 

"Sorry, sorry," Harry apologized, cursing his own thoughtlessness. "I wasn't thinking about your injury."

"S'fine," Draco grunted, but any idiot could see that it wasn't. His face was contorted in pain, and his ordinarily ivory complexion was looking a bit paler than usual. 

"You look like you're about to barf, so no, it isn't 'fine'," Harry grumbled, a bit put-out to see that Draco's habit of sweeping his health and comfort under the rug was still alive and well. "I was too rough with you, like the bonehead I am."

Draco shot him a nasty glare. 

"Harry James Potter,"— Harry's full name, twice in one day? Boy, he must be in for it now— "I have an erection the size of Kilimanjaro, can you  _ please  _ stop handling me like I'm made of glass and  _ do  _ something about it? Or am I going to have to toss myself off right here in your kitchen because you can't get it through your thick skull that I—  _ oomph. _ "

Mindful of Draco's side this time, Harry scooped up his mate bridal-style and carried him upstairs to the master bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. Unable to stop himself, a thousand different ideas for how to fuck that sass right out of Draco flew through his mind, each more filthy than the last, until he finally decided on an appropriate course of action that wouldn't involve anything that could hurt Draco's side and would still satisfy their needs. 

Once the door was shut safely behind them (and warded, sue Harry for his career-induced paranoia), Harry placed Draco on the bed, then grabbed his wand to murmur a spell he knew for a fact would get Draco flushed and flustered. 

"Oh  _ fuck _ ." Draco's voice was high pitched and needy as his wrists were pinned to the bed by Harry's spell. "Oh that's so good, Harry, yes."

"Do you like that, love?" Harry asked, knowing full well how much Draco adored being bound. "Does it feel good, giving up that control you hold so tightly?"

"Yes," Draco gasped, and Harry vanished his clothes altogether. 

Merlin on a fucking stick, but Draco was gorgeous. 

His skin was so impossibly pale— for what was probably the millionth time, Harry marveled at how someone could have such a pure, spotless complexion. Draco's nipples were hard, likely chilled by Grimmauld's night air, and his chest heaved with arousal and anticipation. Last but not least, at the end of a trail of coarse blond hair, his cock was hard and leaking, the pretty pink head flush against his stomach— truly, the man was a vision, and if Harry's own cock wasn't painfully hard, he might've been tempted to stare at his mate all night long. 

"Draco, sweetheart, I'm going to kiss every gorgeous inch of you," Harry told his mate, their eyes never breaking contact. "And then I'm going to suck you until you're right on the edge— but you don't get to come until you're inside me. Understood?"

Draco's eyes went almost comically wide. "But— Harry, you—"

"I know." Draco had been about to say that Harry almost never bottomed, which he usually didn't. Mind, it wasn't out of any sort of alpha male complex or a dislike of the act, really— it was just usually a lot faster to just let Draco bottom, since he came with all the right equipment. Tonight, though… tonight, Harry had a point to prove. "But you're tired, injured. Let me do all the work tonight, yeah? I promise I'll make it good."

"But… what if I want your knot?"

Harry was very, very lucky he didn't pass out then and there. Draco's big gray eyes were pleading, and it was all Harry could do not to choke on the air he was breathing. Talking seemed a nearly impossible feat, but somehow, he managed.

"I don't trust myself not to hurt you. It's better this way, trust me. You'll feel so good— and if you still want my knot later, we can go for round two. Sound okay?"

Slowly, Draco nodded, and Harry stripped out of his clothes before climbing on top of his mate to press tender, loving kisses to his neck, purposefully teasing right around his Mark. Draco writhed and whimpered, his cock straining towards the heat of Harry’s body, seeking friction, but true to his word, Harry was focusing all of his attention on kissing, sucking, biting every inch of pale skin he could reach. There would be time to stimulate that magnificent cock later— Harry had wasted too much time already to be foolish enough not to take advantage of the time he was given. 

“Have I told you lately how lovely you are?” Harry intoned against Draco’s chest, scraping his teeth across one nipple and rolling the other between calloused fingers. “How good you taste?”

Harry pulled back, hands smoothing up Draco’s abdomen, relishing in the feel of muscle quivering under his touch. 

“I don’t reckon I have,” he mused, letting his hands slowly stroke through the hair just above Draco’s cock, teasing, nearly torturous. “But maybe words are wasted here. Maybe I should show you.”

_ “Yes,”  _ Draco hissed as Harry played lightly with his cockhead, thrusting up in search of more of that glorious relief. “Please, Harry, show me.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He swallowed Draco down to the hilt in one go, gagging a bit as Draco lost control and thrust a bit too hard. Gently, but firm, Harry held Draco’s hips in place as he sucked in long, languid strokes, savoring the taste of Draco on his tongue. He could go faster, could drive his mate to the top of the cliff and over it, but this wasn’t about just getting off— it was about apology, affection. It was about reminding Draco that Harry was totally and entirely his, and would be no matter how long they’d been apart. 

“Tell me, love,” Harry rasped after sliding off of Draco with a  _ pop _ . “Do you want my tongue in your arse while I stroke you, or my mouth on your cock while I finger you? Which sort of day is it?”

“Fucking hell,” Draco gasped as Harry played with his hole, gathering slick on his fingers. “Rim me, Harry, please, you’re so good with your tongue.”

Harry couldn’t hold back his grin. “Always so polite when your cock is out. Alright, well, so be it— I never could refuse you anything.”

Using both hands, Harry spread Draco’s cheeks and lapped filthily over his hole. Draco’s hips really did buck then, and Harry laughed despite nearly being kicked. Once more, he held Draco still while he put his mouth to use, licking and sucking at the puckered rim, relishing in the sweet-salt-sweat taste of slick and the wine-like scent of his beautiful, perfect omega, and Draco seemed to truly come apart then, babbling incoherently as Harry gave him pleasure.

“Oh  _ fuck _ , yes, more, please, I want you, Harry, it’s driving me mad. You and your stupid, perfect face and your stupid, perfect mouth and—  _ fuck. _ ”

Just as Draco’s body began to tense, Harry pulled away, his mouth red, wet, and smiling.

“Not yet, love,” he instructed, gathering Draco’s ever-leaking slick onto three fingers. “Not until you’re inside me.” 

Draco keened, tugging at his bonds, aching to touch, but Harry denied him, opting instead to make a show of using Draco’s slick to open himself up. Merlin, but it had been a long time, and the cleansing charms felt strange as usual, but it was all worth it to see the look on Draco’s face as Harry’s arse devoured one, then two, then finally three fingers, all coated with Draco’s fluids. Those shining gray eyes were so lovely as they watched, hungry for more, and if Harry hadn’t been so impatient, he might have teased a bit more— as it was, he was almost afraid of coming too soon, so he relented, straddling Draco and lining his omega’s cock up with his hole before sinking down ever-so-slowly.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Draco nearly sobbed, eyes rolling back in his head as Harry began to move. “Oh, oh,  _ oh _ .”

From there, it didn’t take long for either of them to reach orgasm— Draco came with a strained whine, and Harry followed with a roar. It was perfect, so perfect, and Harry stayed seated on Draco’s softening cock until he’d untied the bonds that held Draco tight, only moving to lay down beside his mate and pull him close. 

“Are your arms sore?” Harry asked, feeling a bit guilty for not thinking to untie Draco sooner. “I probably shouldn’t have done that since you were recovering from… stuff.”

“Harry, if you’re about to apologize for the most incredible orgasm I’ve had  _ this decade  _ I’m going to hex you all the way to Spain and back.”

Harry stifled a laugh. At least some things never change. “Right. Well, I did promise you food. And tea. Are you up for any of that still?”

“I forgot how incessantly talkative you are post-orgasm,” Draco huffed, crabby even in the afterglow. “If you must, go order something— delivery, preferably— and bring me a glass of water. Whatever it takes to shut you up.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Harry replied, kissing Draco’s forehead. “Anything for you.”

Harry used his Muggle phone to call the curry place a block away, ordering the same thing they used to all those years ago, and by the time he got back to bed with that glass of water, Draco was snoozing lightly. Smiling fondly, Harry let his mate rest, appreciating how good he looked naked in Harry’s bed, peaceful, sated. Not for the first time, Harry admired the seraphic shine to Draco’s features, wondering if there was any truth to that Veela ancestry Narcissa always teased about— it certainly didn’t seem very far from the truth, the way Draco seemed to glow in the fading rays of sunlight that poured through the crack in Harry’s curtains. Then again, it wouldn’t make any difference even if it were true, really, because Veela or no Veela, Harry would never be able to resist Draco’s allure anyways. 

Harry’s doorbell rang, and Draco stirred beside him, groggy. 

“Was’at?” Draco asked, cracking open an eye. “Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“It’s just the curry, sweetheart,” Harry said, laughing a bit as he brushed a hand through Draco’s hair. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time Harry paid for their food and shut the door, Draco had performed some cleaning charms, put on a pair of Harry’s pyjama bottoms, and transfigured Harry’s nightstand into a small table meant to be used on a bed. Grateful, Harry set everything up, handing Draco his plate before fetching drinks and napkins. 

“Oh, this is heavenly,” Draco groaned. “I fucking missed that place.”

Harry didn’t say that he hadn’t been able to eat there without crying since their breakup, instead focusing on the positive. “Yeah, it’s pretty perfect.”

The rest of the meal passed in comfortable silence, each of them focused on eating, but allowing their shoulders to touch. Harry was aware that they should probably talk about things, but he couldn’t imagine what on earth he could say that wouldn’t end badly. “I love you” seemed okay at first, but what if it popped whatever safe, happy bubble they were existing in? “I want to get back together” would probably get Harry punched in the face, and the “So, about having pups…” conversation would likely fare much the same in the face of Draco’s scrutiny. So Harry didn’t say anything. Instead, he just tucked into his food and pretended there was nothing to say. 

When they had finished, they cleaned up, transfigured everything back to normal, and laid down, each rubbing their stomach somewhat miserably after eating so much. Still, Harry couldn’t help but feel bone-deep contentment as Draco moved to place his head on Harry’s chest, his hand brushing through the dark hair there. Everything seemed to be right in that moment— more right than it had in years. Harry felt strangely hopeful, like things might change for the better. 

Just before they fell asleep, Draco mumbled into Harry’s chest, half-way dreaming himself. 

“We can’t do this again,” he said, lips tickling at Harry’s chest as he snuggled closer. “Bad idea.”

Harry chose not to respond. He made it a point not to lie to Draco anymore, but he certainly didn’t want to say what he was thinking. 

Draco might decide that this sex, this relationship, this  _ love  _ was a bad idea, but Harry was going to fight for it with everything he had. He wouldn’t promise that he wouldn’t try to do this again— he wouldn’t promise not to kiss Draco good morning, not to cook him breakfast, not to treat him like they were mates. Harry just couldn’t live a lie anymore.

He was going to try to win Draco back for the rest of his life, if that’s what it took. 

___________

_ "But when the melancholy fit shall fall _

_ Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, _

_ That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, _

_ And hides the green hill in an April shroud; _

_ Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, _

_ Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, _

_ Or on the wealth of globed peonies; _

_ Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, _

_ Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, _

_ And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes." _

(Ode to Melancholy, John Keats)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments, you guys are incredible 💕💕


	3. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did this chapter take obnoxiously long to write? Yes. Am I sorry? Yes.

_ ‘We can’t do this again,’  _ indeed. 

Draco had fully intended not to indulge himself any further than that, holding true to his words from the night before. Instead, he'd woken up to a rather magnificent blowjob, let Harry fuck him in the shower,  _ and  _ had gone for round two before Harry could even get his morning coffee made. Draco wasn't sure which part was more irresistible for him— the incomparably mind-blowing sex, Harry's incessant doting, or the intense satisfaction of a knot up his arse after so many years of not having one— but what he  _ did  _ know was that both of them were late to work thanks to their shenanigans.

Well, fine, only  _ Harry _ was late to work, but that was only because Draco hadn't technically been medically cleared to clock in. Draco more than made up for the tardiness, however, when the rest of the Unspeakables kicked Draco out of his office, insisting that he go home— for, instead of being a good little patient and Floo-ing home, he went to Harry's office to  distract him  advise on the case.

"I still don't fully understand the motive," Harry groaned after having stared at the ever-growing case file for about an hour. "Why blow a fucking hole in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Perhaps their excessive stupidity built up too much and the only way to release the pressure on their tiny little brains was to let it out via explosion?" Draco suggested, staring at the ceiling from where he was draped over a table that was clearly meant to give Harry extra room to spread out his work, not to hold a lounging omega. 

Harry  _ harrumph _ -ed, unamused.

"Very funny. Not that I don't love the company, but  _ why  _ are you here again?"

"Because those mouth-breathing coworkers of mine kicked me out of the office," Draco sighed. "Something about rest and recovery, or some drivel to that effect."

"Ah. The rest and recovery you're getting on my table, then."

"Yes, quite."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"I take it you're going to lay there and think hard at me until I give you something useful to do?"

"In essence."

Harry's subsequent smile was soft, and somehow both exasperated and enamored. "Alright, well, help me correctly label all this evidence and then we'll go to lunch."

Oh. Lunch. 

Draco hadn't thought about lunch before he decided to show up and bother Harry— in fact, all morning he had rather forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be on speaking terms with his mate, much less taking  _ lunch  _ together with him. Then again, he wasn't supposed to shag him again either, but Draco had done a fine job of botching that too… but this was  _ lunch.  _ They would be eating in public at one of the busiest times of the day, sure to be seen and recognized by everyone around them. 

"Any place in particular you fancy?"

"Erm, no," Draco replied, sitting up from where he was laying. "Harry—"

"I know a nice Muggle place that serves that poncey rich-people food you like. I can't pronounce any of the names, but I'm sure you could help me out." Harry's smile was radiant, and Draco swallowed thickly, knowing he couldn't refuse his alpha anything when he looked like that. 

"That's fine with me," Draco shrugged, feigning nonchalance even though his heart was pounding as he grabbed a bag of evidence to file away. "You always pick good places anyways."

And that should have been the end of it. 

For a while, that  _ was  _ the end of it. A comfortable silence of sorts blanketed them as they focused on their work, wrapping them in a cocoon of monotony— but Draco's mind thrummed anxiously with a thousand 'what-ifs' and 'wherefore's. What were either of them thinking, spending the night together and shagging like horny teenagers? Had Harry actually meant anything that he'd said in this very office the night before? Why hadn't Harry tried to follow him to France all those years ago, if he'd loved Draco all along? What would have happened if Draco had stayed after finding out about Harry's mission?

After about three minutes of marinating in his misery, Draco could stand it no longer. 

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" Piercing green eyes looked up, locking with Draco's across the desk, and he swallowed.

"I think we may need to talk."

Slowly, Harry leaned back in his chair, expression impassive. "I figured you might say that. Could we maybe have that talk over lunch, give me a minute to prepare myself?"

Draco chewed at his lip, contemplating. On the one hand, he would  _ much  _ rather rip the band-aid off, so to speak, than let this agony drag out for one more second. On the other… well, Draco really was famished, and a Muggle restaurant was much less likely to have unwanted ears listening in. 

"Well, alright. I suppose that's fair."

Instantly, Harry's hand shot out to cover Draco's own, tender and sweet, as though he could read Draco's mind. 

(He couldn't, mind— he was an awful Legilimins— but that just made it all the more precious.)

"It's going to be okay," he replied, smiling with a sad sort of conviction. "Everything will be fine, I promise."

Draco wished he could be so convinced, but he'd never been one to trust fate blindly. The idea of letting go of his fears, throwing caution into the wind, was terrifying, grating against every instinct of self-preservation he had, but… perhaps it was the right thing to do, in some cases. After all, falling for Harry had been like that, with Draco throwing himself in front of the metaphorical train of life, and at the time it had felt so, so very right that it couldn't possibly have been wrong. Of course, Draco still wasn't sure if allowing himself to give everything he had to one person so quickly had been entirely wise, but looking back, he was certain that he didn't regret it.

Loving Harry had taught him so much.

In the one year they were together, Draco had lived more than he had in his whole life. He'd tried new things, gained new perspectives, learned to be comfortable in his own skin in a way that even his trip to America hadn't been able to teach him. No, not America, not the War, not anything else— only Harry could have broken down every barrier Draco had, filled him with an overflow of joy from the tips of his toes the the crown of his head. No one else on Earth could possibly wield that kind of power. With that easy smile and honest heart, he'd turned Draco's life completely inside out, opening his eyes to a world he hadn't previously known. For Draco, friends were no longer only loose allies, but true, faithful confidants with which to share his world; likewise no longer was there a need for stiff formalities to shield Draco from the world, because the world was no longer quite so frightening anymore. 

And it was all because of Harry. 

So no, Draco wouldn't trade the experience for anything, even if it meant never experiencing the worst heartbreak of his life. What Harry had given him was invaluable, immeasurable, and impossible to let go, and now, sitting across from the man he loved, Draco found that he felt as he always had when faced with those green eyes and that crooked grin. 

There was just something about Harry that made Draco want to be brave. 

"Okay," Draco agreed, swallowing his hesitation. "Sure, yeah. Of course it will be."

Harry smiled for real then, and Draco started to hope. 

  
  


***

  
  


Harry's palms were sweating. 

Draco wanted to talk. That was fine. Definitely fine. Harry could talk, it should even be easy. Honesty, that was it, he just had to be honest and everything would probably be peachy. Well, if they ever  _ started talking _ , that is. 

For ten minutes, they'd sat at their booth, staring silently at their menus. Harry's heart was pounding, and his skin felt too small for his body. Conversely, Draco seemed to be doing just fine— his expression gave nothing away, just as calm and cool as though he were at home, lounging on a sofa. Even so, Harry was certain that if he reached out, he'd be able to touch the tension between them— in fact, he nearly tried to just for the hell of it, but then Draco folded up his menu with a heavy sigh, looking down at his hands as though they had suddenly become quite interesting. 

"Well, I've tried to read the appetizers section three times to no avail," he sighed, almost comically theatric in his resignation. "I suppose there's nothing for it." 

Harry held up a hand, motioning for Draco to hold off for a moment as he snagged the attention of the nearest waiter to order some wine. 

"I have a feeling I'll need a drink for this," Harry explained sheepishly as Draco raised a brow. "I only wish they had something stronger."

"Yes, I do suppose it would be easier to talk about if we were a bit sloshed," Draco shrugged. "Just remember that  _ you  _ aren't on medical leave and actually have to return to work this afternoon."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the action was full of fondness. "Yes, mother."

"I take offense to that, your mother looked rather like a Weasley in the photos I've seen of her."

They shared a moment of laughter at that, but their mirth was soon gone, smothered by a blanket of heavy emotion brought on by their anxious anticipation. The waiter brought their wine and left, and from there it was back to avoiding eye contact as though they were shy teenagers on their first date.

"Well, I don't think we can put this off any longer," Harry muttered, finally daring to look Draco's way. "The floor is yours, love. Ask away."

Draco swallowed thickly, his adam's apple bobbing with the action. "I don't know of any other way to say this— or if there's a reason for me to say it at all, since I haven't ever admitted it aloud to myself thus far— but I feel that I should clarify something."

Harry nodded, trying to remain outwardly calm as his stomach tied itself in knots.

"You mated yourself to me under false pretenses." Draco's eyes remained fixed on the table, his hand trembling as it lifted his glass. "Part of consent is full knowledge of both parties and I was kept in the dark. Therefore, you bonded without my full consent, which was hurtful." 

"I know," Harry replied, thoroughly ashamed. "I… I didn't really think it through at the time. I just knew it was what I wanted, and I was so selfish that I completely disregarded your feelings by not telling you about my mission."

By the time Draco was ready for a reply, his glass of wine was empty, and he poured another, this time filling the glass as full as he could manage. 

"Yes, that's true," Dravo acknowledged, his voice sad and soft. "But I think the part that stung the most wasn't that I wasn't fully aware of what I was signing up for— what really, really hurt was that it didn't mean anything to you, and it meant everything to me."

Harry was dumbstruck. How could Draco  _ possibly  _ believe that what they had was one-sided? Harry was absolutely  _ mad  _ for him, completely and totally mental— it was obvious to anyone with half a brain. He was so, so in love with Draco that it had become part of him. To be Harry Potter was to truly, deeply, madly, desperately love Draco Malfoy, full stop— but before Harry could wrestle his tongue back from the metaphorical cat to voice that fact, Draco continued. 

"Be that as it may, last night you said something that caught my attention." Draco's cheeks flushed as he met Harry's eyes, piercing his alpha to the core with that silver-starlight gaze. "You said— you said you loved me. Is that true?"

Harry's heart leapt into his throat. "Of course, Draco."

"Even… even back then?"

"Yes." Harry's voice sounded hoarse, even to himself. "Always."

"Then… I don't quite know what to do with that."

This was getting more confusing by the minute.

"What do you mean?"

Draco frowned, his brow furrowing as he struggled with his words. 

"I guess this is what I meant— if you say you love me, why didn't you follow me to France like the brash, impulsive Gryffindor you are? I half expected you to, but when you didn't, I figured I just wasn't worth the jet lag to you."

"How could you—" Harry stopped himself, running his palm across his face. "Draco, I had hurt you. The last thing I wanted to do was barge in and force you to face that hurt before you were ready. You did tell me to leave, after all, and I took you at your word. Coincidentally, I was expecting  _ you _ to come to  _ me _ when you—  _ if  _ you wanted to sort things out." 

Draco blinked, and Harry felt his own cheeks burn pink. "Well then. That makes us a pair of tits, doesn't it?" 

Harry couldn't help but agree. 

"When were you going to tell me?" Draco asked after a moment, his eyes soft and vulnerable. "About the mission?"

"I was waiting for the right time." It was entirely true. Harry  _ had  _ been waiting for the right time… only he'd waited too long. 

Draco folded his arms, suddenly a bit sullen. "And when would this right time have been? Before or after I carried your pups?"

"Look, you've had plenty of chances to yell at me about it, and I'm pretty sure your five-year absence said enough on the subject," Harry replied, drinking heavily from his own glass of wine. "Not to say that you  _ can't  _ yell at me, or give me hell about it for the rest of my life, but…"

Harry paused, swallowing dryly. 

"That's only if you want to spend the rest of your life with me. I don't see much point in having a row over it if you don't."

Draco inhaled sharply, and Harry couldn't help but smile at his mate's expression of shock. 

"Why?"

"Why? Isn't it obvious?"

Draco looked away. "Not to me."

"Then listen closely." Harry's hand shot out across the table, grabbing Draco's own. "We're a mated pair. Instinct alone compels me to want you, but that's not nearly all that there is between us. I miss you, sweetheart. I miss the way you turn my alarm off and make me late for work— I miss hearing your voice all the way downstairs while you're in the drawing room, playing that dusty old piano and singing your heart out when I come home from work. I miss everything about you, and like I said, I'll let you scream at me for the rest of forever as long as there is a forever."

"Harry…"

"You don't have to give me an answer right now, I just— I wanted you to know where I stand." 

When Draco looked up, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and Harry's heart clenched. 

"On some level," Draco began, shaky and hesitant, "I wish I could tell you that I need time. I wish I could say that you've hurt me irreparably, and save myself from the trouble of being hurt again."

Harry felt sick, but Draco continued on, either unknowing or uncaring that Harry felt that he was about to shatter. 

"But the truth is… I love you just as much now as I did when this began. I'm not sure I ever stopped."

"Draco…" Harry had the urge to pinch himself. "Does this mean… ?"

The omega— his  _ mate _ — nodded, and Harry knocked over their glasses and everything else on the table when he grabbed Draco by the collar of his robes and hauled him across the table for a bruising kiss.

"You have just  _ ruined  _ my robes, you berk," Draco laughed against Harry's mouth, but his tone suggested that he didn't give two knuts about his robes. 

"I'll have to take them off then. You know, to take them to my dry cleaner."

"Harry, you don't  _ have  _ a dry cleaner."

"Why should I? I'm a bloody wizard. I'll just vanish them, is that better?"

"Not in the middle of the restaurant," Draco laughed, prying Harry's fingers from his robes. "At least get the check first."

As if on cue, their waiter appeared at Draco's side, holding out the leather booklet that contained their check. 

"Thank you for visiting, Mr. Malfoy," said the waiter, his smile somewhat strained. "Goodbye."

As Draco grabbed the check with a quick "Thank you," Harry noticed several things at once. 

Firstly, the Auror in Harry sensed something off about the waiter's disposition— anyone else might not have picked up on the glassiness of his eyes or the forced air about him, but Harry had seen far too much for far too long not to feel that something was horribly, terribly wrong; secondly, Harry's magic shuddered and recoiled, detecting something amiss in the magical signatures surrounding them; and finally, the Mating Bond between himself and Draco screamed as though a knife were held directly to Draco's throat. All this, Harry perceived in a fraction of a second— but only a heartbeat later, and Draco's hand was on the check, then Draco and the check both vanished. 

A portkey.

That done, the waiter collapsed in a heap on the floor, and Harry cast a Patronus as the familiar panic-energy from adrenaline pumped through his veins.

"Ron, I need a team in Muggle London stat," he told his stag, shaking with the horrible combination of rage, fear, and impatience. "Draco Malfoy has just been abducted from a restaurant, and there's a Muggle waiter here that was likely under an Imperious Curse. Follow my Patronus, it'll lead you to the place."

That done, Harry began to pace, fuming. He'd finally done something right, he'd  _ finally  _ made amends with the man he loved more than life, and now Draco had been snatched from him like a fish from a pond. It was disgusting, infuriating, and by all the powers in the universe was it  _ frightening _ — Harry felt like  _ he  _ was the metaphorical fish out of water, floundering, suffocating. Even as the  _ crack  _ of Apparitions sounded around him, bringing a team of the Auror's best and brightest to his aid, he felt useless, helpless, and sick. 

"It'll be alright," Ron told him once the investigation was underway, placing a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "We'll find him, and when we do, he'll be sitting on top of a pile of unconscious fuckers that underestimated him."

That image would have given Harry a reason to smile any other time, but now, he couldn't quite muster one. 

"Thanks, Ron."

"Don't thank me yet," he muttered. "Just you wait 'till I tell 'Moine that you've come up with a reason for us to work late again."

Harry did smile then, just a small quirk of the lips, and Ron grinned in response. 

"Let's get to it then," Harry sighed, drawing his wand. "Maybe 'Mione'll be a little more understanding if we have something to show for our late hours."

  
  


***

  
  


As far as captivity went, Draco supposed that it could have been worse. Granted, his prior experience with such things could very possibly have skewed his perspective, what with the Dark Wanker keeping people imprisoned in his own home, but hey, there was nothing like past trauma to make present trauma sort of funny. 

"You're ours now, bitch," one of the guards had said as he clamped a cursed amulet around Draco's neck before shoving him into the room of the abandoned hotel and setting up wards in lieu of a door. "Ours to do with as we please!"

Draco couldn't help but laugh at the time. Perhaps he'd been a bit hysterical, but if there was one thing he'd learned from being a Death Eater, it was that no one person could be owned by another unless they gave themselves up willingly. No cursed amulet, no torture, nothing in the world could take away a person's free will forever. To assume otherwise was pure hubris. 

Needless to say, Draco's guard hadn't shared his humor, and had taken it rather poorly. Grumbling something under his breath about not damaging the merchandise, the poor fool actually tried to  _ use _ the amulet to control Draco, and eventually turned purple with the strain of it as Draco's control over his pheromones remained impeccably in place despite the guard's magical meddling. Naturally, the whole fiasco only served to make Draco laugh harder, now utterly lost to his hysterics as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Maybe if you turn it off and back on again," Draco wheezed between guffaws, clutching his stomach. "Put it in rice, perhaps?" 

Eventually, the guard  had  given up, and now he was standing awkwardly outside Draco's room, fuming. After that initial incident, however, the whole thing had been incredibly boring, no threats, taunts, or torture to speak of— and, really, if the place hadn't had such strong anti-Apparition wards, Draco would have simply broken down the wards on his door, incapacitated his guard, and popped out with the other victims two by two until there was no one left behind, wrapping up the case with a nice, tidy bow so he could go home to his strapping alpha mate and continue what they'd started in the restaurant. 

Unfortunately, however, the wards  _ were  _ strong, too strong for Draco to dismantle alone and wandless, and the more Draco thought about it, the more he realized that staying put was his best option. Even with the amulet on, he couldn't be controlled— there wasn't a whole lot they could really  _ do  _ to Draco as long as he had his own free will— and a team of Aurors was most certainly on the case, likely led by one massively irritated Harry Potter, who was nothing if not tenacious and determined whenever he put his mind to something. Really, just by staying put, Draco was leaving a lovely little trail of breadcrumbs leading the Aurors straight to the source of the crime. 

Oh, the things Harry would do to those sick fuckers. What a pleasing thought. 

Quite unconsciously, Draco began to hum a little tune, his Bond deliriously happy to think of a jealous, enraged Harry barging in with his wand blazing. It wouldn't be longer than a day before he found Draco, not if the alpha's track record was any indication, and the thought of him dashing to Draco's rescue was undeniably appealing, in an odd sort of way. Knowing that he and Harry had reconciled with one another was one thing, but the prospect of Harry moving hell and earth to find Draco… well, who could blame an omega for dreaming? 

"Shut your gob!" The guard snapped from the other side of the wall, evidently still put-out about their earlier interaction. "The bloody hell do you have to sing about anyways?"

"Him," Draco replied, more to himself than to anyone else as he thought of green eyes and bared teeth. "I sing for him."

___________

_ "For him I sing, _

_ I raise the present on the past, _

_ (As some perennial tree out of its roots, the present on the past,) _

_ With time and space I him dilate and fuse the immortal laws, _

_ To make himself by them the law unto himself." _

(For Him I Sing, Walt Whitman)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly I worked all day in a pecan orchard in the middle of the blazing summer heat so theres prolly a million mistakes that I missed while editing so, uhm. Sorry 😅


	4. Harry Potter and the Man He Disintegrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had every intention of posting this sooner, AND giving yall a heads up about this being the last chapter..... but, uh, yeah, I didnt so 😅 sorry sorry sorry. In an effort to churn out the story, I have barely edited this at all, so sorry for any oopsies!

"Harry, if you keep pacing like that, I'm going to sick up all over the new carpet in your office."

Sighing, Harry flopped into one of his chairs, fighting the urge to fidget as Ron read and reread the files while the Unspeakables were still working on tracing the port key's magic. Some small, selfish part of Harry wanted to snatch the files away from Ron just to have something to do— it was driving him mad to stand around whilst his Bond screamed and snarled and whined in utter turmoil— but he managed to refrain, opting instead to dig his nails into the leather of his seat. In Harry's defense, it  _ had  _ been four hours since the Unspeakables started working, which was really a lot of time for someone for whom patience had never been a strong suit, and idleness less so. Harry had been quite well-behaved if he did say so himself, but in the same way that a dog would piss on the carpet if not let out to have a wee, so would Harry inadvertently implode the building with his emotional magic if someone didn't let him  _ do  _ something. 

Miraculously, Harry made it another hour before he started to get that familiar feeling of being choked by nothing at all, but there was still no news from the scene of the crime. Ron, seeming to sense his discomfort, threw Harry the files and leaned back, putting his dirty boots right on top of Harry's nice mahogany desk. 

"It's going to be alright," he said lightly, fixing Harry with an unreadable look. "After all, once you've hit bottom, it really can't get worse, can it?"

Harry was about to open his mouth to agree when a shrill female voice shrieked some ways down the hall, followed by shouts of Aurors who no doubt were trying to calm the owner of said voice. 

"No I will  _ not  _ calm down for just a moment! And if you wave that wand at me one more time I'll snap it in half and shove it down your donut-eating throat,  _ Auror Creevy! _ "

Harry bodily flinched. He'd know that voice anywhere— even if the last time he'd heard it was five years ago, screaming at him in a Muggle restaurant. 

"Pansy fucking Parkinson," Ron swore, swinging his feet off of Harry's desk to stand tall and imposing. "Nosey, prying bint, if she so much as  _ looks  _ our way I'll—"

Ron never got a chance to finish that sentence, because the door to Harry's office slammed open with what seemed like the force of a battering ram and  _ not _ a petite investigative journalist. Nevertheless, there stood Pansy Parkinson in all her enraged glory, wrapped in a (rather massive) Protego charm that seemed to be cast via protective runes in her clothing rather than by wand. Her cheeks were an unsightly red, and her hair was wind-swept and wild, and poor Dennis Creevy stood behind her, looking back and forth between Harry and Ron apologetically. 

"What the fuck do _you_ want?" Ron spat, crossing his arms. 

"To know why neither Narcissa nor Lucius Malfoy have been officially informed of Draco's kidnapping," Pansy snapped right back, hands on hips, and Harry was struck suddenly with the image of a pug yapping at a German shepherd. "And why the fuck  _ I  _ was able to find out just by passing through a Muggle restaurant and  _ asking  _ someone."

Harry and Ron made eye contact, and Harry knew they were thinking the same thing. 

_ Here we go again.  _

"Parkinson, if you don't learn to keep that nose out of places it doesn't belong, I'll hex it right off your ugly face."

It wasn't a threat, Harry knew— Ron was making a promise. 

"Go ahead," Pansy snarled. "Give me a reason to write an article with your name on it."

Harry sighed. Why did  _ he _ always have to be the one to sue for peace? It was honestly exhausting. 

"Look, let's pipe down a second, yeah?" Harry suggested, standing between the two of them, arms open. "There's no need for us to act like school children, is there?"

Pansy sniffed. “He started it.”

“Do you really never  _ listen  _ to yourself?” Ron asked, almost truly baffled. “Harry  _ clearly  _ just said—”

“Enough!”

Pansy and Ron flinched at Harry’s tone, both glancing nervously around at the various objects that wobbled and shook from Harry’s magic.

“Parkinson, you aren’t allowed to be in this part of the Auror Department without a visitor’s badge from the desk and a proper escort,” Harry said, voice firm and professional, brooking no argument. “However, I'll make this exception— since you made it this bloody far and you and I are overdue for a chat anyways, I’ll address all your concerns in the interrogation room  _ only. _ ”

Pansy frowned. "Surely you have the space to accommodate this 'chat' elsewhere."

"Well spotted. It's my inclination to do so that you'll find lacking, I'm afraid."

"Fine," she sulked, folding her arms. "Lead the way, Potter."

"Be right back, Ron." 

A tense silence settled over them as Harry escorted Pansy to the interrogation room. Even as the door closed behind them, ensuring their privacy, that silence remained, thick and heavy enough to choke them if not alleviated in some way. Harry, seeing that Pansy wasn't going to be as forthcoming as he'd originally anticipated, cut that silence right to the quick, five years worth of unanswered questions rolling off his tongue before he could stop them. 

"How did you get that letter?" He demanded, arms folded.

"Pardon?"

"When you told Draco about my assignment. How did you get the letter?"

Taken aback, Pansy sniffed, turning her head in what Harry recognized as her attempt to disguise her discomfort as disdain. "I had been investigating another Auror, one up to the usual misconduct that the papers love. I was less familiar with the setup of the offices then than I am now, so I ended up snooping through the wrong files— yours, obviously. Not that I owe you any sort of explanation, but as soon as I read it I forgot all about what I'd come there to do and dashed out to the Apparition point, intent on finding Draco and telling him the truth. Along the way, I quite literally bumped into Weasley, and the rest is history."

Harry's teeth ground together as his heart began to ache from old wounds. 

"I see."

Pansy looked up then, and Harry was surprised to see that her expression was soft and vulnerable, her eyes bright with some heavy, searing emotion that he couldn't quite get a read on. 

"I won't apologize."

"I know."

"He deserved to know," Pansy continued, looking away once more. "He loved you so much, Potter. He opened up everything that he'd ever bottled up for you, he unreservedly gave you everything he had. I truly believe that he'd have cracked open his ribs and offered you his bleeding heart, if you asked… and I was happy for him."

Harry swallowed thickly. Now more than ever, he missed Draco, longed to have him there to deal with this mess he'd made— but Draco was gone, snatched right out from underneath Harry's nose in broad daylight… it made the ache just that much worse.

"I know that. And I would have done anything for him, whether or not you believe it."

A scowl worked its way onto Pansy's face. "Not anything."

"I would have kept that secret all my life to protect him from the hurt it would bring him, which was more than you did."

"Ignorance is not always bliss, and he's a Slytherin— he would've found out eventually anyways. What if it had been after you'd started a family? Do you really think he could've raised pups with you after that, or trust you with anything ever again?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Something about Pansy's tone and word choice reminded him eerily of Hermoine. "Point. But those are old battles— what are you really here for, Parkinson?"

"I'm here to figure out what really happened, and to confirm for certain that you and Draco are actually seeing one another again," she replied, fixing him with a cold look. "Which, I can see from your gobsmacked expression that you are. How lovely."

"Fucking hell," Harry sighed, running a hand over his face. "Let's get this over with, then."

Harry started from the beginning, detailing how he and Draco had reconciled, and what had happened in the restaurant. Pansy chewed her lips when Harry mentioned the omega trafficking ring case and the amulet, and her eyes began to glisten when Harry's voice cracked upon saying Draco's name.

"We're doing all we can, but we wanted as little press coverage as possible. If they find out we're onto them, they'll pick up and go, and we might never find them again," Harry finished, nearly boneless with exhaustion. "If we'd been the ones to tell Narcissa… "

Pansy cringed. "She'd have come wand-blazing back to London like the bloodthirsty Slytherin she is."

"Precisely."

Seemingly satisfied, Pansy nodded, worry eating at her expression. Harry was debating on whether or not he should offer a comforting hand when Unspeakable Camren burst through the door, her eyes wide and hair in a mess. Harry's heart leapt into his throat, but the Unspeakable smiled, warming his heart with hope. 

"Auror Potter, the Minister told me to tell you to 'stay your stubborn arse still' and let the recon team handle Draco's rescue. I wager you have about five minutes before the team heads out, and a little less than that to convince someone to Side-Along you."

Harry turned to look at Pansy, who in turn smirked back at him. 

"Thank you, Unspeakable Camren," Harry grinned, mentally reviewing which member of the recon team was most likely to let this one slide. "You can tell Shacklebolt that I wouldn't dream of doing anything else." 

"Go get 'em," Pansy told him, oddly fond. "You might be a bastard, but you're a right fucking powerful bastard. Bring him back to us so I can tell him how horrible you are again."

Harry's expression turned serious, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. "You know I will."

"I do. Now, go break the rules."

No one had ever had to tell Harry that twice in his whole life.

  
  


***

  
  


Sometimes, amid his own jaw-dropping magical abilities and flashy wandless flourishes, Draco forgot what a magical warhead his mate was. Perhaps he'd gotten used to it, desensitized by the constant feel of that warm, honey-gold skin thrumming with magic so strong it could level all of London and them some— or perhaps he'd willfully chosen to ignore it— but there was absolutely no denying that Harry Potter was the strongest wizard alive when the  _ crack  _ of anti-Apparition wards nearly burst Draco's eardrums, followed by the  _ pop-pop-pop  _ of rapid Apparition. His magic filled the room, drowning Draco in it along with the intensity of his emotions. That poignant rage, that trademark passion was unmistakable, and so acutely felt by all that the alpha hovering above Draco hesitated in scenting Draco just long enough for Harry to figure out what was happening in front of him.

Stupid mistake, really. Draco shouldn't have been as surprised as he was that the alpha simply  _ poofed  _ out of existence right before his eyes, reduced to fine particles of… something. Draco tried not to think too hard about it as it got in his eyes and— ew— his  _ mouth.  _

The room went deadly still, and Harry's snarl rang loud and fierce through the silence. 

"Harry James Potter," Draco heard himself say, almost dizzy at the sheer shock of the change in events. "Did you just disintegrate a man for me?"

Harry, apparently, was past words— he strode forward to the bed that Draco had been pushed down on, and the rest of the room sprang into action, flinging jinxes and hexes like mad. None of it mattered as Harry cupped Draco's face, his emotions projecting loud and clear. His hurt, concern, relief, and longing overwhelmed Draco, and they kissed once on the lips before Harry moved away, wandlessly casting a  _ Protego  _ charm around them. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked, peridot eyes darkening as he scanned Draco for wounds. "You smell okay, but that alpha, he—"

Draco grabbed his mate's hand and smiled. 

"I'm okay. I was waiting for an opportunity, and I nearly had it," Draco grinned, unable to hide his pride at his own cleverness. "He was telling me his long, long list of crimes. You know, it's amazing what an alpha will tell you once you get them in bed."

Harry snorted with an expression somewhere between enamored and exasperated, pride and disbelief, and Draco couldn't help but steal another kiss.

"Let's get to work. The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner you can knot me and remind me why you're the  _ only  _ alpha I let into my bed."

Nothing, and Draco meant  _ nothing,  _ got Harry to work faster than the promise of an orgasm. Within a half hour, the entire place had been scoured from top to bottom, omegas rescued and sent to St. Mungo's for evaluations and to give their statements. Meanwhile, the remaining un-disintegrated perps were bound and transported back to the Ministry to await trial. It went by so quickly that before Draco realized it, Harry had Side-Alonged him to the Auror offices and dragged him into the one that Draco knew read Head Auror Potter.

"Here?" Draco laughed against Harry's lips as prying hands began to remove their clothing piece by piece. 

Harry's answer came in the form of a tongue along Draco's Mark, sending shivers down his spine.

"Okay, alright, here is good—  _ oh, Harry _ ."

Harry dropped to his knees then and there, shoving Draco's pants down to his thighs and taking Draco's cock what must have been  _ painfully _ far down his throat. Draco groaned and bucked his hips, but Harry didn't gag, not once. His hands reached back to finger Draco open, not stopping until Draco was dripping and gasping and keening uncontrollably, like some sort of wild animal. No one else could ever drive Draco this mad, no one else could ever have pushed so far past that infamous Malfoy restraint, but there Draco was, allowing himself to be guided into bending over Harry's desk and spreading his legs wide in invitation. 

"I love you," Harry half-snarled, half-sobbed as he entered Draco, breaching his hole in one swift press home. "I love you so much, and I was so afraid of losing you again that I couldn't breathe."

"You didn't lose me," Draco groaned in reply, surprising even himself with the ability to speak coherently. "You'll never lose me. I'm a part of you, and you're a part of me. I love you so much, Harry. I think I always have, and I know I always will."

After that, there was little time for talking— they fucked hard and fast, leaving one another breathless and wrung dry. Harry's knot swelled bigger than Draco thought he had ever remembered it being, and somehow, they managed to navigate backwards into Harry's office chair, Draco stuck in his lap and uncaring as to who had heard or seen them. 

"Come to mine?" Harry breathed against Draco's neck, and Draco laughed. 

"If you think I'll ever come home to anywhere else for the rest of my life, you're more daft than I remembered."

Draco didn't have to turn to see that Harry was grinning from ear to ear, but he did anyways, because there was nothing else he loved to see more 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


**Epilogue: Six Months Later**

  
  


"I  _ really  _ could have gone my whole life without knowing that this baby was made on your desk at work," Ron whined as he, Harry, and Hermoine watched Draco open yet  _ another  _ baby gift, looking happy as a lark and practically glowing with his pregnancy. "I mean, congratulations on fatherhood and all that, but really, Harry, your  _ desk _ ?"

Harry shrugged, too happy to care. 

"Am I to expect this sort of thing when we have a baby, Ron?" Hermoine asked, eyeing the rows upon rows of gifts bestowed on Harry and Draco from friends, family, and every Pureblood with a sense of community obligation left in wizarding society. "I don't think a quarter of that would fit in our flat."

"I dunno, 'Moine, Malfoy comes from… well, you know.  _ That  _ sort."

"Can you imagine the amount of 'thank you' cards he's going to have Harry sign?" Ginny giggled, coming up behind Hermoine to wrap her arms around her favorite non-Weasley.

"I don't even want to think about it," Harry laughed, kissing Draco's temple as he opened a knitted blanket from Molly Weasley. "Let me enjoy watching my mate enjoy being spoiled, will you?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "And he  _ does  _ enjoy it, doesn't he?"

"I'm right here, you numpty," Draco said, but his grin never left his face. 

"You can take the man out of the mansion…" Harry teased, but Draco only leaned his head on Harry's shoulder. 

"I love you," Draco hummed, giving himself a rest from opening gifts as Harry wrapped him in his arms. 

"And I love you."

Harry had never been happier in all his life. He'd come so far from the starving, abused child he'd been— he was a hero, a lover, a best friend, and now, a father. It was almost too much to feel so much happiness, to watch Draco, his mate and father of his child, with such love in his eyes.

How could he have ever gotten so lucky?

"You know, Pansy was miffed because we turned down her name suggestions," Draco chuckled, his voice vibrating deeply against Harry's chest. "She said she'd call them whatever she pleased since neither of us have any taste."

Harry snorted. "Tell her she can have an interview about our parenting adventures, I'm sure she'll be cooing at our little darling no matter what name we choose."

"Oh, certainly. For such an incorrigible slag, she's got quite the baby fever."

"Oi, I heard that!" Pansy called from where she was fixing one of the floral arrangements on the center table. "I've no such thing as  _ baby fever _ , you prick."

"Of course  _ that's _ the part she disagrees with," Harry laughed, and Draco chuckled along, as amused as ever by Pansy's antics. 

"What are the odds we can vanish all this shit to Grimmauld and make a getaway?" Draco asked, burrowing deeper into Harry's embrace. "I'm knackered."

"We'll cover for you," Hermoine offered, a sly, almost-Slytherin grin on her face. "You'll have to be fast though."

"Ah, so your Gryffindor friends  _ can  _ be useful for some things."

Harry pinched Draco's arm lightly, but on Hermione's signal, he Vanished every last present to Grimmauld and pulled Draco tight against him to Apparate out, no doubt leaving behind startled, gasping guests. They'd catch hell for it later, but i

Harry couldn't bring himself to give a damn as they laughed and fell against one another, gleeful and giggling. 

"You know, we won't be able to do that in a few weeks," Draco said, placing a hand on his swollen belly. "Won't be good for the baby."

"Then we'd better enjoy it while it lasts." 

Suddenly, Draco grabbed Harry's hand, excitement shining out from starlight eyes. 

"Come on, let's go to the drawing room. It's  _ never  _ too early to introduce the baby to Queen."

Harry couldn't hold back his laughter as Draco dragged him to the piano, launching into whatever song came to mind. It was so silly, yet so sentimental— a thousand feelings mixed and churned in Harry's chest, and he couldn't imagine a life more perfect, or anyone more perfect to share it with. 

___________

_ "I celebrate myself, and sing myself, _

_ And what I assume you shall assume, _

_ For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." _

Song of Myself (Walt Whitman)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for bearing with me, I love yall so much!!!


End file.
